


Like With Peacocks

by KriegsaffeNo9



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: Gen, Horror, Mind Control, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 04:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14686427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KriegsaffeNo9/pseuds/KriegsaffeNo9
Summary: Wangari wakes up with a voice in her head.  A very insistent voice.Suggested on a Christian dare by LWA fiction maestro Supa, and with help from one of my best buddies, Drunk Ambassador.





	Like With Peacocks

Sometimes things just go wrong, you know?

* * *

Wangari woke up in the newspaper room.

She did this a lot. They had a dorm--her and Jojo and Kim-Kims--but most weeks they were on their feet all day, running around, finding news, making news, studying, testing, all that. So when their energy finally ran out they were just as likely to wind up at their dorm as put their head on anything slightly elevated and drift off.

Some time ago Wangari made herself a hammock out of a sturdy old sheet. She liked it; it made her feel adventuresome, outdoorsy, and she could dangle her feet off the edge. She was inordinately fond of her feet. In fact, let us not speak falsely: it was her fetish. Months of a gradually-increasing intimacy with Sucy Manbavaran, that sly amphibian, had left her feet tragically under-stimulated; of all the things Sucy loved, feet just weren't one of them, and oh, how that--

Wangari stirred from her sleep, an odd dream still clinging to her waking thoughts. What is that feeling? Like she was being watched from within her own eyes.

Like cameras were in her eyes. Like someone was whispering stage directions to her nerves.

"Who is that?" Wangari said.

It's me.

Wangari closed her eyes and thought. She mulled the voice over in her head, and as more words sifted through her conscience, she at last made--

"Annabel Creme?"

She spoke to the audient void. Kimberly had left hours ago when Wangari had first fallen asleep. Joanna was here, but she was seated in the sole swivel chair the room enjoyed, bundled up in a colorful Guardians of the Galaxy blanket, a gift from Wangari last Christmas. They were Jojo's favorites, Wangari had noticed, and of all the newsmaidens of--

"Okay," Wangari said, holding up her pointer finger. "I've never met you, and I saw, like, one interview where you talked about Lotte. Why am I dreaming about you?"

The void said nothing.

"Like hell," Wangari said, rolling out of the blanket-hammock. "You're in my head and you're... narrating. Did somebody put one of the Night Fall audiobooks on while I was sleeping?"

No, Wan-Wan.

"You don't know that's my nickname," Wangari said. "So I'm gonna assume you got your voice stuck in my head and I'm being all... meta. This is a weird one."  
Hm. How can I prove... ah, yes. Wangari, could you wake Jojo up?

Wangari glanced at Joanna. Her glasses were still on, though crooked; she was curled up in the swivel chair, her feet kicking softly in her sleep. "But she's dreaming," she said. "That's gotta be rude."

But you have to know, don't you?

"Maybe you're the, what's it, the imp of the perverse. I should keep going on."

If you'd like. Go on where?

"Like... outside, maybe."

It's three at night. The witching hour. Maybe that's a good call.

"Shut the hell up," Wangari said, padding past Joanna and out the door and into Luna Nova.

* * *

It wasn't long before Wangari noticed a few things about her situation.

"You like threes," Wangari said. "Wangari did this, this, this. And you like short sentences, and sentences with ellipses..."

Like that.

"Yeah. And smartass asides. And sometimes you like to, what's it, delay a reveal. Like now."

The scarred moon, gravid and pale, shone on the Luna Nova courtyard. Wangari sat on a stone bench, toes tickled by the grass, and listened to the crickets.

"Hrm."

Wangari had wandered without consciously focusing on her destination. When she came to a stop, she took a moment at last to take inventory of her surroundings. And that's why I delayed the reveal. The establishing shot. It's like in a comic book: the first panel's a close-up of a shouting superhero's face, then we pull back and find out that his girlfriend's tied to a chainsaw table or a laser cannon and the villain's got his hand on the trigger. It's a classic technique.

"This isn't a technique. This is me having a very weird schizophrenic break." Wangari tried to fixate on her feet as she picked up a dandelion with her toes. "Funny how you're not describing how hot my feet are. Or what I look like, even a little."

Well, if I'm being honest, my audience knows who you are, because my audience is me, and maybe Lotte, if I share it with her one of these days. If I feel like sharing this.

"What is 'this,' anyway?"

I'm writing a story about you.

"Is it porn?" Wangari said. "'Cause I've got suggestions for that."

If you knew how many unfinished sex scenes were burning holes in my desks and hard drives, you wouldn't say that.

"Think of it like motivation, jerk. Speaking of, what are you doing if you're not gonna have me getting stuffed by a big hot dude? Can't even do a Black Panther crossover so I can finally get it from M'Baku?"

Not Black Panther himself? Ah, right. You must like the musclebound types. Big enough to carry you like a doll...

Ah, I felt that. Seems you don't have a thing for dolls, like Lotte does. You just like feeling small and comfortable in the arms of someone big and strong who knows how to make you feel fantastic.

"You could say that," Wangari said. "You know, you're not doing a good job of arguing you're not a voice in my head narrating my thoughts for me. But hell, for a schizophrenic break you're pretty mild. So regale me with what everybody is into."

I could. Or I could tell you why I'm not throwing you into the arms of a big, handsome man.

"Sure, whatev... right, 'cause that's your schtick?" She blew on the dandelion between her toes, sending the seeds flying on the thin night breeze. It was not blowing with strength but it was cold and damp. The sky was clear, but the breeze augured an icy rain. "Like you're steering me around."

I am. I decided to give you the benefit of a doubt earlier. I could consider your feelings if I felt like it. I don't have to, though.

"Give me an example."

Okay.

* * *

Wangari stood over Joanna, the knife in her hand.

 _Knife?!_ thought Wangari.

It was nothing special, a steak knife from the kitchens. They were empty at this hour, and the steak knives didn't see a lot of use outside of banquets or if one of the teachers was blowing part of the budget on themselves. So this wouldn't be missed for a good long time if it would ever be missed. Joanna was sound asleep and her eye was right there.

_No. Screw--no, fuck you! Not gonna happen._

I didn't even say what was going to happen. Hell, maybe it's something nice.

_Did you even read what you wrote?_

I did, and I knew what I was writing when I wrote it. I knew what's lying ahead, as I know what I'm going to do now. You hear that? That's the music I have on.

 _Dave Matthews Band_ , Wangari thought. _You piece of shit. What kind of taste is that? Hell, if you're Annabel--didn't I hear you were more of a hip-hop kind of girl?_

My tastes are varied. You're supposedly quite the dadrock girl yourself. Or so I have heard it, and perhaps written it.

_Whatever I am, I'm not a stab-my-bestie type._

You know she's in love with you, right?

_...she is?_

For a reporter, the obvious missed you so very neatly. The way she hangs on your every word. The way she lights up at your approval. The way she chose to sleep here in your presence. She sleeps better when you're in the room, you know. The way Diana's devils whisper a little more quietly when she's with Akko, the way Lotte dreams about me as she is dreaming about me now.

_Alright, Miss Romantic. Lemme drop the knife and wake her up and... kiss her, maybe. Shit, I don't have practice at this but I'll take it over whatever you have in mind with a knife._

It's simple. And it's not what you think.

Wangari crept to the desk, adjusting her hold on the knife. In silence, she carved a pair of initials:

WW + JJ  
4EVA

and encircled them in a heart. And she set the knife on the table, handle facing the sleeping Joanna.

_Okay. So this is a love story? A headcase love story?_

No.

Did you ever see the meme about peacocks?

* * *

"What about peacocks?" Wangari said, and she was aware of cold tile beneath her feet. Cold tile at a sharp angle. She was on the roof--

She was on the roof of Luna Nova, and her arms and legs weren't answering her. She was poised so precariously the slightest tilt would send her tripping. Or, for whatever reason, she couldn't help but imagine it--the anxiety of the edge, the gravity that keeps men from taking the plunge that seemed so tempting, that call--

"Peacocks. What was that about peacocks?"

There's this cute photo of an albino peacock. There's a caption on it, something like "a peacock's colors only come in once they've tasted human flesh."

"...you sure this isn't a porn?" Wangari said, trying to laugh.

It isn't.

Being Annabel Creme has ancillary responsibilities. The pen is magic. It has a lot of words in it and a lot to write about an ongoing, perpetual love triangle with time travel and spaceflight. And it needs to stay alive like any animal wants to stay alive. Once in a while, it has to feed.

She missed Joanna's myriad of cues, but there were only so many ways to take that sentence. "No," she said. Not in shock, because I won't let her. Not in despair, because that's so cruel to force onto her at this late hour.

"Once a year," Annabel said, far away in her cozy hotel room, scribbling down words on printer paper, her dinner turning sour in her stomach. "It has to be this way or the stories die. I can promise you this, you'll live on forever, in your way. There's a reason there are so many very specific, very fascinating characters in Night Fall. I mean, it's the least we could do."

Wangari felt her feet move; her footprints were clear in the moonlight, and the tiles were slick with dew, summoned by impending rain. She was crying, and wordless, because I would not let her speak. What would she say?

I suppose I could keep her from crying. But that would be lying, too. Not that I couldn't make her, but that it would be wrong to stop her. It's a rough deal. But life is nothing but one rough deal after the other.

I could've chosen any one of you. But of all the little personalities I've heard of in and around Luna Nova, I like you a lot. The quirky newspaper girl who'll stop at nothing to get a scoop. The others are too important. You, you're fun, but there are so many others who could take your place. Cut you from the story and we lose nothing, really.

Wangari perched on the penultimate ledge of the dormitory. The tears fell like rain now, splashing onto the roof tiles.

I'll make it up to you, I promise. When you're in the story, you'll meet a nice weird-gender case named Jojo. They'll be meek and bespectacled but powerful. You'll be cradled in strong arms and given the night of your life. I promise. It's the least I can do.

But for now, gripped with a burst of energy, realizing what love you had was right under your nose, you waited for your adorable new girlfriend to wake up. And you were so full of energy you fled to the roof, and jumped and pirouetted and cartwheeled--and the dew turns slippery under your feet and you trip and you plummet.

It's clean, I promise you. Your temple strikes a big rock in the ornamental gardens and your brain functions cut entirely before your head splashes open, your crumpled body flopping over the remains of your skull. It's a bloom of death; an ornamental spray of blood and gray matter. It's beautiful, is what it is.

The pen is warm in my hand. It's fed. Content.

I lied a little, Wangari, while you were alive. It needs to feed, yes. But it could feed on all sorts of death. I could write about an old man dying surrounded by loved ones. I could write about a real asshole getting exactly what he deserves.

But that's just bread and water to this pen. Gruel and ten minutes of prison-mandated sunlight for vitamin D.

It needs a certain something for the words turn beautiful, like with peacocks.

Despair.

Joanna would have sunk into despair no matter how you ushered off this mortal coil, Wangari, but this timing is too beautiful. She will never be alright again.

And my thoughts turn towards the next volume of Night Fall and the words grow and bloom and pollinate and reproduce.

Lotte, if you had taken the pen... I wonder if I would have been your first choice.


End file.
